


Forfeit

by micehell



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, PWP, maybe an eensy bit of a blood kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-08
Updated: 2006-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos bowed his head, looked up through his lashes, well aware of the effect it had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forfeit

A hard thrust sent Methos skidding back over the slick floor, Duncan in pursuit. Methos raised his blade, desperate parry, a grunt pulled from him at the shock of contact. Duncan pressed the attack, his katana inches from Methos' face as Duncan pushed him, back and again, until Methos was flush against the wall.

There was a savage smile on Duncan's face, and an obvious swell between his legs. His excitement was almost visible in the air surrounding them, like an electrical field that sparked against Methos, making the short hairs on the back of his neck roil. Duncan's blade met his in a bright V against Methos' throat, a trickle - tickle - of blood sliding down the join.

Heat, proximity, the smell of blood, and the whisper of pain. Methos felt his own erection, caught against the denim of his jeans, grow as hard as the steel at his throat.

So close to those deep eyes, and Methos couldn't miss the lust, anger, distrust, and love - the legacy of Bordeaux - staring back at him. He turned his neck to the side, submission.

There was a breathless laugh at the move, and Duncan drove his blade a knife's edge closer, accepting what was offered. Duncan's breathing started to even out, some of the tension leaving him, and he eased back, taking the bite away from Methos' throat. He was still crowding close, in Methos' space, a wistful, confused expression painting his features as the thrill of the fight faded.

Methos bowed his head, looked up through his lashes, well aware of the effect it had. "You've won."

Duncan bowed back, all grace and smooth motion; that weighted, almost courtly manner that was part of the man's charm. "So I have. I should claim my forfeit now."

That Duncan hadn't meant anything by that was obvious, but Methos felt a flare of hope - arousal - at the words, willing to offer almost anything to bridge some of the distance that had been hacked between them by Kronos. By Methos himself. He licked his lips, calculating that effect too, and said, "What would you have of me?"

Nostrils flared, as if he were scenting Methos, and a shadow passed through Duncan's eyes. In between one hitch of breath and the next, it was as if Kronos stood there, a shroud over the lighter presence beneath. "Please me."

If it were truly Kronos, untouched by Duncan, Methos would have known exactly what to do. The dance between them would have ended with blood and semen staining the wood floor below… if it had truly been Kronos.

But Methos didn't want to feed that particular remnant out of the legion that ghosted around in Duncan's quickening. He knew in a way that he couldn't put into words, not even in his own teeming mind, that if he touched Duncan, it would wind up burning them both, another scar marring the fragile connection they shared.

Still, _please me_. Not a command that Methos could - wanted to - ignore, and he had learned long millennia ago of ways to please without a touch.

Reaching up, cold-honey-slow, he ran one finger along Duncan's katana, pushing it further away, the drying drops of blood from his neck mixing with fresh tiny, red pearls. He watched the blood pool on the tip of his finger, watched it run a chaotic path down his hand as he lifted it, traced - chased - it with his tongue. He slid the finger whole into his mouth, lips tightening around it, cheeks hollowing as he sucked greedily at his own flesh, moaning at the taste, _like danger_ , the wetness and heat of his mouth like a bridge between his finger and his groin.

Duncan's dilated eyes were locked on Methos' mouth, a flush crossing his cheeks, and one of his hands was rubbing distractedly at the cock trapped behind the cloth of his pants.

Methos grasped the hem of his sweater, pulling it up to expose his abdomen, one hard nipple. He used his spit-wet finger to trace around it, making it draw up harder still. He felt the finger, felt Duncan's eyes, and a shiver ran through him, heat and ice burning through his veins at their touch.

With anyone else, Methos' control would have been better, but the need on Duncan's - his own - face eroded it, and Methos couldn't care. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned his pants, letting his cock out in the scant space between them, a sigh escaping at the caress of air, at the whisper of heat coming from Duncan's body.

Duncan's eyes shifted down, a flash of pink as his tongue wetted a mouth slack with arousal and what might have been regret. His body jerked with an abortive move towards Methos, then pulled away, both of his hands squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, knuckles going from pink to white against the hilt of his katana.

The maybe-regret made Methos hesitate, not sure if he should continue, but it was really too late to stop, Duncan's reactions feeding his own and back again, a strange loop of past and future, of need and despair. It was too much, not enough, and he gripped himself hard - painfully - no subtlety in the fast strokes that blurred hand and cock into one. He felt orgasm roaring closer, and gratefully opened to it.

But it was Duncan who cried out, his sword clattering to the floor as his whole body convulsed, eyes closed in pleasure, and Methos stilled his own movements, mesmerized, unable to remember ever seeing someone so beautiful in their completion.

When the eyes drifted open again, there was only Duncan - satisfaction - in them, no shades of what had been. He held Methos' gaze for a moment, his head tilted a little to the side, like a curious puppy, puzzling something out. He nodded to himself, finding an answer, and his lips curved up in a small smile, one of the few that Methos had seen in months.

Duncan picked up his sword, careful of damage now as he hadn't been before, and he walked away from Methos, calling back over his shoulder, "I'll see you tomorrow."

He paused at the open elevator, his back to Methos, his hand hovering over the button that would close the door between them. His voice was low and husky, and there was a breath of fondness in it when he said, "You did please me. You do."

Methos had no time to respond before the door closed, leaving him alone, still hard, but with a disgustingly treacly feeling of warmth flooding him at the idea that Duncan still cared. The warmth was offset by the knowledge that Duncan didn't quite trust him again, either, but that wasn't to be expected, not so soon and for so little reason. Methos had always been practical enough to take whatever victories he could get.

He let the warmth stroke along places inside him that hadn't felt anything but dead for far too long, let his hand stroke along his flesh, pleasure washing through him, leaving him breathless.

And looking forward to tomorrow.

/story


End file.
